


Cardigans and Kiton

by orphan_account



Category: Casino Royale (2006), James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Bond is amused, Fluff, Homophobia, I don't know what to tag this, M/M, Mafia AU, Q is terrified most of the time, Skyfall, Slow Build, Suit Porn, and all the suit porn, canon betrayal, it's fluff disguised as angst, the James/Vesper is very minor, with some plot thrown in there
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-14
Updated: 2015-06-04
Packaged: 2018-01-15 18:04:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1314115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>The age of fedoras and pinstriped suits was long gone, and thank god for that. Well-worn trousers and brightly-coloured cardigans were infinitely more comfortable, and they had the added benefits of being cheap and </em>not<em> screaming “mobster” to any passing friendly policeman</em>.</p><p>Q works for the mob. Eve is his wife out of necessity, Mallory is the boss, and there's someone above him that is powerful enough that no one cares about the gender of the people he takes to bed. Q dreams of men in well-fitting suits, and James Bond has a liking for expensive threads and a certain curly-haired hacker.</p><p>Q's fairly certain that he's going to die, most of the time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kiton

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheBritishGovernment](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBritishGovernment/gifts).



The age of fedoras and pinstriped suits was long gone, and thank god for that. Well-worn trousers and brightly-coloured cardigans were infinitely more comfortable, and they had the added benefits of being cheap and _not_ screaming “mobster” to any passing friendly policeman. Q diligently told himself that those were the reasons why he wore his clothes, and not because he hated shopping more than any other possible human activity.

It was November, anyway, and he needed to wear the cardigan to shield him from the brisk autumnal air as he walked to work. No, Q had no desire to look like the mobsters of days gone by, nor like those he worked with on a daily basis. With their Yves Saint Laurent and Valentino prefabricated suits, they looked more like an army of second-rate lawyers than high-class mafia. 

And Q looked like a Uni student, but he preferred that over looking like someone's monkey.

The walk to work was a long one, upwards of forty-five minutes, but on days when it wasn't raining Q liked to make the walk. His boss owned a complex of flats down by the river, and while a handful of M's goons stayed around to protect his Armani-clad arse, Q found that he preferred to have his own space. 

Tanner always said that Q's loyalties were divided between Mallory and Kiton, though there were days that Q was unsure whether the latter meant his cat or the five-star suit brand of the same name. 

Q considered his perhaps irrational obsession with designer suits that not only would he never be able to afford, but that he would also never be able to wear. He slid his ID card through the swiper at the front door to the lobby as he thought about the sort of man that looked good in a suit, and if the object of his fantasies happened to be wearing the charcoal gray number he'd seen in the newest line, well, no one needed to know about that. 

That thought brought Q crashing out of his train of thought like nothing else could. Really, no one needed to know about that. He looked around guiltily, as if it were possible for those around him to sense the queerness of his thoughts. While most the rest of the world (save Russia, but they were simply being petulant) had moved past open discrimination against men who favoured men, the mob had not. Dalliances and drunken encounters were easily forgotten and even encouraged, but relationships? The last man Q had known to have been openly gay had been found in an alley with his cock cut off and stuffed down his own throat. 

Irritated and slightly jumpy now, Q looked up, frowning at the commotion around him. People were rushing about, cleaning rags and clipboards in hand, looking generally frantic and panicked and concerned. Recognizing one of the faces, Q reached out, catching Tanner's arm. “What's going on?”

“Where've you been?” Tanner shot back, thrusting a stack of file folders into Q's arms. “The boss is coming.”

“M?” Q repeated, shifting the folders in his arms as he followed Tanner through another set of doors. “M's always here. What's the fuss about?”

Tanner waved a hand and shook his head, leading Q around the corner to his office. He twisted the handle and held the door open for the younger man as Q walked inside, setting the files down on his desk. “Not M. Higher than M.”

“Higher than M?”

Tanner nodded. “Rumour has it that it's _the_ boss.” He leaned against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. The Yves Saint Laurent suit he was wearing was loose around his middle, where he had lost weight, but Q didn't have the heart to tell him that the material was sagging and pulling. Mostly because he knew that Tanner's wife had left him a month previous, and that was what had led to the man's weight loss.

“The boss? Since when does he visit us?”

All in all, Tanner didn't look _bad_. The suit was tailored, only it was tailored for a man who weighed about a kilo more than Tanner did. The shoulders fit nicely, and the sleeves were the right length... it just needed a little nip and tuck at the waist, and then...

“...rap M on the knuckles for the gap in the books...”

“That wasn't M's fault,” Q countered, looking up sharply. “He doesn't deal with the underlings directly, so he couldn't have known about Robert's finger in the pie. If it's anyone's fault, it's mine. I should be getting my knuckles rapped.”

Tanner shrugged. “I wouldn't ask for trouble when none's coming your way. Is the problem dealt with?”

“Bottom of the Thames.”

Tanner smirked. “Good. There shouldn't be any problems. M's concerned, but not worried for his life. He wants the place presentable, though.” Glancing pointedly around Q's spotless office, he raised an eyebrow. “Should be loads of trouble for you.”

Q just gave him a look. “Is that all? I do have better things to worry about than M's impending embarrassment.”

“That's all. Word has it he'll be getting here around four.”

“I'll be long gone.”

Tanner laughed openly at that, twisting the knob and opening the door. “I don't think you've ever left before four in your entire life.”

He left the room, but the door didn't click shut. Slightly perturbed, Q looked up, expecting to find one of his underlings standing in the doorway with the information that was now... sixteen hours late, but the figure standing in the doorway was not that of a skinny, young street kid. “Darling,” he said, giving the woman in the doorway a small, half-smile forming on his face. 

Eve sashayed into the room, wearing a beige pencil skirt and an off-white loose blouse. She was _well_ -dressed, but her tailored garb didn't cause the same reaction in Q's mind that a man's suit always did. That “kink,” as Eve referred to it, was solely directed at men.

As was the rest of all the attraction he had ever experience in his life.

“Sweetheart.” Eve crossed her arms, leaning against Q's desk. The gold ring on her left hand flashed, and as always, it made Q's eyes flicker down to the matching ring on his own hand. Eve moved to perch on the edge of the desk, crossing her legs. “Did you hear? We're getting inspected.”

Q made a noise. “Don't know why you're so chipper. The likelihood of there being any eligible females is rather low.”

Eve's grin was rather fox-like – sly and alluring. “It doesn't _have_ to be a female. Though it has been a while.”

Because that was their deal.

They pretended, for the sake of saving their respective skins, that they were married. Deeply in love, as well. And strikingly heterosexual. While Q was strictly trousers-and-button-up oriented, Eve preferred to... dabble. Blouses or braces, it didn't really matter, not to her, at least. The mob had different ideas, though, and that was why they sported matching rings.

“It can be a while longer. I think I'm going to need you to push a few pressure points.”

Eve cocked an eyebrow. “M has me on secretary duty until the boss is gone.”

Making an amused noise, Q pressed the button on the side of the monitor, turning it on. “Good. You are the pretty one in this relationship, my dear.”

Eve laughed. “From what I hear, it wouldn't matter which one of is it was. Rumour has it the boss swings both ways. Though I suppose that when you're deadly as deadly as him the rules don't really apply. Can you imagine? Being powerful enough that you could take whoever you wanted into your bed and no one would say a word to the contrary?”

“Rumour,” Q repeated. “Rumour also has it that M traded state secrets to the IRA. Listening to rumour will get you killed.” He paused. “Who told you, anyway?”

“Fredrick Foster.”

Q's fingers froze over his keyboard for brief moment before he swallowed and finished typing out a particular line of code. “He's dead.”

His words made Eve pause, and the decidedly cheerful atmosphere faded. “You don't know...”

“Even if he was lying about the boss, he came out.” Q swallowed, turning to look up at Eve with a forced smile. “Did you need something, darling?”

Eve's expression was sad as she slid off his desk, walking around it to put an arm around his shoulders. “You'll find someone. Give it time, Q.”

Q made a noise of disbelief, but he leaned into Eve's arm, appreciating the comforting touch of his best friend. “As always, your optimism is refreshing,” he said after a moment, pulling away. Go on. Go be the pretty face outside M's office. He probably wants you to be the last thing he sees.”

Eve laughed, patting Q's shoulder as she stepped away. “Well, who would I be to deny a dying man his last wish?”

*

The programme was Q's baby. He'd built her from the ground up, cannibalizing bits of code from previous projects and international hackers (Anonymous had lent him a particularly fine piece of restructuring code that changed the serial number associated with individual pounds en route). All in all, it was gorgeous, and currently stood at 1000 lines of pure, functioning, money-laundering perfection. Designed to skim money off the interest in already fraudulent bank accounts, it was something that Q hopes to implement over the next few months. It would effectively double their income, and, hopefully, it would help make up for the fact that it had taken him three _months_ to notice that one of their own was skimming off their profits.

Taking a sip of his tea, Q settled in to work on the programme. His fingers moved deftly over the keys, pausing only every once in a while to bring his mug up to his lips. It was the Scrabble mug, the one Eve had gotten him as a wedding gift two years ago since, quote, “You might as well be getting some caffeine tonight since you won't be getting anything else.”

If nothing else, Q could appreciate his wife for her sense of humour and her undying empathy for his situation. And her impeccable tastes in porcelain, of course.

*

So, maybe he lost track of time a little. He really should have gone home the second or third time he ran out of tea in his mug, but it was just so _easy_ to switch on the electric kettle and pour another cup and go back to his programme. _Another hour,_ he promised himself. One more hour, and then he'd go home and let Eve tell him all about the boss who'd come to visit.

And then it was seven-thirty, and he was still at work. He looked up and blinked, experiencing a moment of complete and utter disorientation, because something had broken his concentration, and it wasn't a text message from Eve telling him to come home already. His phone was uncharacteristically silent, devoid of any messages from his wife, cheeky or otherwise. Perhaps the boss hadn't been all that good looking, then.

There was a knock at his door, and Q jerked a little. That must have been what roused him from his programming coma. Slightly perturbed, he clicked the “save” button and closed out of the programme, pushing himself up to his feet as he ran a hand through his hair. He was close, close enough that he could almost taste the yen and euros that would be coming in, and, anyway, _who_ in their right mind was still in the building? Most everyone went home or went out at five.

Q opened the door, expecting to see one of his minions standing on the other side, but instead of a teenager dressed in jogging pants and a hoodie, a tall, muscular, suited man met his eyes. Q eyes raked over the fabric, taking in the impeccable cut and the faint herringbone weave. If he wasn't mistaken, and he highly doubted he was, the suit was Kiton, and the man wore it like a second skin.

The man coughed, and Q made his eyes slide up to his face, a faint blush rising in his cheeks. “Can I help you?” he asked, unsure of how to deal with the newcomer. He wasn't a damn secretary, and there was a reason. Eve had more people skills when she was half-asleep than he did when he was wide awake.

“I'm looking for Gareth Mallory.”

The man's piercing blue eyes met Q's at the same moment that he spoke, and the hacker had a fleeting thought that maybe he needed to replenish the bottle of lube in his bedside drawer because that _voice_ was going to be a pleasure to remember later on. He nodded, attempting to be brisk, and took a half-step forward, hoping the blond-haired, blue-eyed, god of a man in front of him would take the hint and step aside. “He's just upstairs. I'm on my way up, actually. I can take you there.”

With a nod, the man wearing one of the most expensive suits on the market stepped aside. Q eyed him for a moment, and then ducked back into his office, grabbing the flash drive from his laptop that had the programme on it. Hesitating for a only a moment, he moved to pick up a second drive, bringing his foot up to rest on his desk for a moment before slipping the reinforced titanium case inside the sole of his shoe. One could really never be too prepared. 

Once he rounded the corner, he saw two thugs standing in the lobby, the cuts of their prefabricated suits barely hiding shoulder holsters and the builds of secondary school wrestlers. They were standing next to a woman, and Q found it amusing, in a sort of vague, removed way, that the way her obviously designer scoop-necked pale cream dress fit her did absolutely nothing more than remind him that his wife's birthday was approaching, and he needed to spend a certain amount of money on her to ensure there wasn't a repeat of the year before.

Q made to turn towards the stairs, in order to lead the man in the expensive suit upstairs, but one of the thugs reached out, catching his arm. The hacker opened his mouth to ask what, exactly, he wanted, but a glance at their boss told him. 

“Humour them,” the man said, putting his hands in his pockets as he watched Q casually. His icy blue eyes almost looked amused, but it was the kind of amusement possessed by a predator, not a comedian. He gave a nod, and the bodyguard began on what would turn out to be the longest, most thorough frisk Q had ever experienced.

He found the first flash drive, a few pens, a tea bag, and the keys to the car Q had gifted himself for his last birthday. When the thug's wandering hands turned up nothing else, the man in the nice suit coughed, taking a step forward. Q adjusted his rumpled clothes and shot dirty, heated glares at the two men, and then straightened. “If you'll follow me,” he said, not even bothering to stop for confirmation before turning on his heel and starting on the stairs.

The sound of the four of them following him met his ears, the sharp click of the woman's strides distinct from the muffled leather tones of the men's. When he finally stopped outside Mallory's office, he realized that he didn't actually know who any of them were, so he turned, holding the door half-open, looking up at the man when he stopped as well.

“Who are you, exactly? So I can tell Mallory who's here to see him.”

The more-than-slighly predatory smile returned to the man's face, and he straightened almost imperceptibly. “Bond,” he said. “James Bond.”

 _Pretentious,_ Q thought. _Pretentious prat._ But he smiled, nodded, tried to ignore the way that smile made him think of _things_ he really shouldn't have been thinking about. “I'll let him know you're here, though it might be a while.”

With that, he turned, pulling the door open the rest of the way before ducking inside. He frowned when he saw Eve still seated at the little reception desk, glancing up at the clock on the wall. “Why are you still here, darling?”

Eve was already halfway to her feet, and Q wasn't sure that he liked the look in her eyes. “The boss was late,” she said, and the look turned positively murderous. “Thank you for bringing him up here, but perhaps you could have delved a little deeper and discovered a few social skills?”

Q froze as Eve opened the door the rest of the way, murmuring apologies about the wait and Q. Still in shock, Q watched as the man, Bond, James Bond, stepped into the room, followed by the woman. His girlfriend. Which would make her Vesper Lynd, and he truly was an idiot, wasn't he?

At least he wouldn't be alive much longer to kick himself for it.

Bond seemed to be taking the slight well, though, nodding at Eve and giving her the same look he'd given Q. Analyzing, the hacker realized, now that he wasn't directly on the other end of it. Calculating. And definitely predatory, because no, that hadn't changed. Then those eyes met Q's again, lingering for many moments too long to be proper.

The woman (Vesper bloody Lynd, he'd heard rumours about her) stepped forward impatiently, her hand settling on Bond's arm. “Leave the pretty boy alone,” she said, just barely loud enough for Q to hear. “We have business here.”

Bond smirked, and Q's knees nearly buckled, fear and inappropriate arousal warring inside him for the most dominant, heady emotion. He dropped his eyes, and a moment later, he heard Mallory come out and escort the pair of them in. Only when he'd heard the door shut firmly did he look up, and when he spoke, his voice was somewhere between timid and resigned. 

“He's going to kill me, isn't he?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look [at](http://www.gildedlife.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/08/kiton-suits-with-kiton-tie-on-sofa.png) [these](http://www.gildedlife.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/08/kiton-bespoke-suits-ultimate-luxury.png) [suits](http://noblecustom.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/02/kiton-suit-investment-banker-bespoke.png).
> 
> Also, [Glory and Gore](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vEHHh8IBhpY) by Lorde was on repeat while I was writing this.


	2. M.J. Bale

There wasn't much for Q to do but wait. Objectively, he knew that he could make it for at least a week if he left that exact moment, but running meant that Bond would have to chase him down if he wanted to have a word, and Q had already done enough to make the man irritated with him without then adding insult to injury. So he sat there, next to Moneypenny's desk, worrying his lip between his teeth until it bled and wringing his hands in his lap until she reached over to still him with a sympathetic look.

“He has more important things to deal with,” she said, and Q wished that the floor would swallow him up.

He knew next to nothing about Bond, other than hearsay and rumour. Word on the street was that Bond was bi, but the story people were telling about Foster assured Q that, even if by some chance the muscular, blond god of a man who had disappeared into Mallory's office with the dictionary definition of 'female' on his arm _was_ bi, Q still didn't have a chance. He was sure that being with the boss required some sort of pedigree, and as far as he knew, being his quick shag on the side resulted in a painful, humiliating death.

If he had known something, anything, he have been able to calm himself down. But Bond was a wild card, a variable that Q didn't have the time to investigate. No. All he could really do was sit and wait and worry and pray to the god of the hour that however much he had offended Bond was not enough to make him want to take action. 

The door to Mallory's office stayed closed for nearly an hour, and when it finally opened, it was only Vesper Lynd that emerged. Q decidedly did _not_ like the appraising look she gave him, or the equally knowing look she gave Eve, as if she knew every dark and dirty secret that the pair of them had.

When she rounded the corner, and Q was certain that she was out of earshot, Eve leaned over to speak in his ear. “Can you imagine shagging _her_? Well, not you, obviously, because the other one is more your cup of tea, but _hell_. She'd be all fire and flashbombs.”

Q wasn't exactly sure what that meant, but it sounded violent, and the coy, appreciative voice voice Eve was speaking in gave him a little too much insight into her sex life. And she didn't stop at that. With a small chuckle, she rolled her chair closer and propped her elbows up on the desk. “That'd be something, wouldn't it? You'd be shagging the boss, and I'd be shagging the boss's girl.”

Q looked at her with something that resembled horror in his eyes. “You have a death wish,” he stated. “That is the only possible explanation here. Are you _mad_?”

Eve only shrugged and went back to sorting through the papers on the desk. “It's all right to _dream_ , you know.”

It wasn't, Q thought. It wasn't all right to dream, not about people like James Bond and Vesper Lynd. They were dangerous, like vipers, and Q wasn't anywhere close to being a snake charmer. If he allowed himself to dream about Bond, or someone like him, he'd get bitten. That was what snakes did, after all.

As he caught up to his thoughts, he realized that maybe he had taken the snake analogy a little far, but it still applied. Bond was dangerous. Q was not beautiful, rare, powerful, or exotic. The math did itself. There was no point in wishing, even if Bond's hungry, predatory look had gone straight to Q's groin. It wasn't going to go any further. 

The door opened again perhaps twenty minutes later, and this time, Bond emerged. Q met his eyes for a single moment, icy blue staring into hazel until Q dropped his gaze to his lap, adrenaline and entirely inappropriate arousal flooding his body. Perhaps it had been so long that his body had stopped being able to differentiate between danger and flirtation. Though, he suspected that where Bond was concerned, the two were likely very similar. 

He half-expected Bond to just walk by and ignore him completely, but of course, that was too good to be true. Bond stopped in front of him, and stayed there until Q swallowed and made himself look up again. The man's eyes were fixed on him, and he looked _amused_ , the bastard. It was the little quirk of the blond's lip and the goddamned twinkle in his eye that made Q sit up that much straighter, his expression going defiant. “Can I help you?”

Q had no doubt that Eve could have extrapolated all about what kind of lover Bond was from the smile he gave Q. “I'm sure you could help me in a myriad of ways,” he said, his voice practically a purr. Q flushed. “Walk with me.”

It wasn't a request, that much Q knew. So he rose, smoothing out his cardigan with carefully steady hands. “Where are we walking to?”

Bond, of course, didn't answer. When he started walking, Q fell into stride beside him, shoving his hands into his pockets and trying not to think about what was going to happen next. Bond seemed to be amused, not irritated, and Q could only hope that would bode well for him. He could deal with being amusing. He could deal with being irritating, as well, when the situation didn't provide immediate danger to his well-being.

“Mallory speaks highly of you.”

Bond's words took Q by surprise, and he stuttered for a moment before managing a slightly squeaky, “He doesn't tolerate mediocrity. I don't, either.”

That drew a chuckle from the older man, though Q didn't quite understand what was funny. His job required precision. He provided that precision, and he did his job well. Those were the facts.

They were walking incredibly slowly, but they still arrived in the lobby fairly quickly. Q could see Vesper outside, conversing with the two bodyguards, and he had the brief, fleeting thought that it wasn't exactly _safe_ to stand out on the sidewalk like that when your name was Vesper Lynd, but he barely had time to complete the thought before Bond turned to him, mouth open as if he was going to say something. 

That, of course, is when everything went to shit.

Q barely had time to register the shift in Bond's expression before the man was tackling him to the ground. Rubble exploded over their heads, and Q's chest and elbows hit the floor, hard. Bond's body was solid, warm and heavy above him, and for one terrifying moment, he was only aware of the dead weight of the older man and the ringing in his ears. 

_Semtex_ , Q's brain supplied helpfully. _Or C-4. Detonated from outside. Visible detonator, leading to Bond's reaction._

Bond.

Q coughed, groaned, shifted. He managed to roll over, moving Bond's dead weight to his stomach as he sucked in a huge, dust filled breath. His glasses were a lost cause, cracked and dirty and chipped, , so he pulled them off and tossed them aside before running a hand through his hair.

_Don't panic. Focus, dammit!_

Bond was unconscious, so Q backhanded him and caught his wrists when the man tried to jerk upright. “Bond,” he said as sharply as he could, dust coating his mouth and throat and lungs. “Sit _still_.” When the man just looked at him, Q reached around, tentatively touching the back of the blond's head. His stomach roiled when his hand came away warm and sticky, and he closed his eyes for just a moment.

Apparently, Bond took his quiet sigh as an indicator that he should get up. “Vesper is...”

“Outside, and out of this bloody mess, one way or another.” Q's voice was rough, and he forced his eyes open, grabbing the front of Bond's suit so hard one of the lapels tore. His ears were still ringing, and for a moment, his vision swam dangerously before settling on a steady blur. “I said sit still, for god's sake. Going out there and getting yourself shot isn't going to help her much, is it? No. Whoever blew this bloody place up wants you dead, and giving them any indication that you're anything else is very poor judgment on your part!”

Bond blinked down at him, and for one brief, terrifying moment, Q believed that Bond was going to snap his neck for insolence. Then the man let out a breath and slowly laid back down on top of Q.

The hacker thought diligently about uncompiled code and open-ended href tags.

Eventually, he gave a grunt, and Bond rolled off him. His chest ached, and dust and grit burned his eyes, but they were still alive.

“Can you see anything outside?”

Q's glasses were still gone, and Bond's voice when he answered was terse and unhelpful. “No.”

Q sighed, forcing himself to sit up. From what he could see, and that wasn't much, the lobby was in ruins around them, but thankfully, the upper floors hadn't collapsed down onto them. Statistically, that gave Eve and the others a very good chance of still being alive. God, he hoped Eve was alive.

Bond was just standing there, nearly motionless, so Q huffed out a breath and pushed himself up to stand on shaky, no doubt bleeding legs. He was about to speak, to say something about getting Bond someplace safer to get his wounds patched up, but before he could, his out-of-focus eyes managed to pick up an oddly bright spot of red on the man's forehead.

This time, it was Q that tackled Bond to the ground, trying to ignore the almost unmistakable sound of a bullet carving through flesh. Bond grunted, and Q felt warmth blossom up under his hand when he moved it from Bond's shoulder to his chest, frantically. 

“Fuck!”

There was blood. Bond had been hit in the shoulder, and there was blood pouring out over Q's fingertips as he tried to staunch the bleeding. “Fucking... we need to get you out.”

_Focus, Q. Get Bond out._

So Q did just that. Moving slowly, mostly on his knees and stomach, he managed to drag Bond away from the direction the sniper's bullet had come from. The man made small, pained noises every time Q dragged him over a particularly jagged bit of rubble, and Q murmured his apologies absently, focusing more on getting them to the car he hoped was still around back. That was where Eve always parked, and if they were at all lucky, the car would still be viable.

He pulled Bond over the remains of the emergency exit, letting out what could only be described as a whimper of relief when he saw the car. Standing, he made to open the door, but Bond tugged urgently on his trousers leg. “Sniper,” he bit out. “He'll have moved. Be careful.”

Q was almost touched.

Nodding, he kept himself low as he crawled around to the driver's side door. No bullets came raining down on him, so he reached up, yanking on the door handle. When it opened, Q breathed a sigh of relief, hoisting himself up into the seat. If Eve was still alive, he needed to chastise her, right after he thanked her for being so careless. A car, he could work with. He could definitely work with a car.

As Bond levered himself up into the passenger seat, Q tore off the panel underneath the steering wheel, revealing a tangled mess of wires underneath. Bond groaned, and Q shrugged out of his cardigan, tossing it over to Bond with the mumbled directive of, “Keep pressure on the bloody thing.”

Bond complied, crumpling up the mustard yellow fabric and pressing it against the bleeding bullet wound, while Q squinted and dug the pocket knife out of his trousers and started stripping wires. A few moments later, he pressed two bare wires together, letting out a triumphant sound when the engine revved up.

“Vesper...” Bond began.

 _Love,_ Q thought, _is a horrendous inconvenience._ When he glanced over at the blonde again, though, he was unconscious, sprawled out over the seat in a way that was so very much like a puppet with its strings cut that bile rose into his mouth. He wasn't going to let Bond die. 

There was no way in hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look [at](http://www.mjbale.com/media/wysiwyg/lookbooks/aw2013/mjbale_lookbook_autumn_winter_2013_14.jpg) [these](https://www.mjbale.com/media/wysiwyg/lookbooks/ss2012/mjbale_lookbook_spring_summer2012_13.jpg) [suits](http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lTSwZfUg1o4/To0XxbF5jRI/AAAAAAAACX4/rs-GRW_uq-0/s1600/MJ_Bale-69.jpg).
> 
> Also, Sophomore Slump or Comeback of the Year by Fall Out Boy was on repeat while I was writing this.


	3. Baubridge & Kay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: brief mention of rape. It hasn't happened to either of the main characters. It's simply part of a conversation about consent.

To his credit, Q maintained a fairly level head, even as he was dragging a bleeding, semi-conscious James Bond into a dingy motel, the kind that didn't care if its patrons survived the night, as long as they paid. He booked them a room, and then helped Bond into it, letting out a sigh of relief when the man waited to collapse until he was next to the single bed.

There was a lot of blood. The flow was sluggish, though, and when Q stripped off Bond's jacket and shirt, he saw that the bullet had only clipped the top of the man's shoulder. It hadn't gone through.

“Lucky bastard,” he said under his breath. He wadded up Bond's shirt and pressed it against the wound, wondering a little distantly what had happened to his cardigan. Not that it mattered, really. Blood stains were nearly impossible to get out of normal fabric, never mind delicates.

Bond coughed. “Lucky?” Now that he was horizontal, he looked much better. Less pale. And, once again, very cocky and self-assured. With the threat of Bond's immediate death no longer hovering over their heads, Q became painfully aware of the chiseled, hard torso that had remained hidden under Bond's shirt, and found himself staring for a few moments longer than necessary. Then he coughed, jerked, and stepped back.

“You let me drag you!” He pointed his finger at Bond. “You _knew_ it only clipped you, and you let me drag you and worry and...”

“Had to find some way to get you to put your hands on me.”

The _bastard_. He smirked at Q, who flushed all the way up to the tips of his ears. He opened his mouth to tell Bond that he'd like to put his hands around his neck, but from one moment to the next, Bond's expression went from sightly amused to slightly annoyed. “There wasn't any harm done, but I still need to get this sewn. Do you plan on helping me with that, or do I need to tend to it myself?”

Q closed his mouth tightly. Nodded. He turned on his heel without a word and made his way down to the lobby, pulling aside the receptionist with a hard look and a firm hand. A few minutes later, he had a first-aid kit which he decided he'd much rather throw at Bond, instead of help him stitch himself up.

Still. Wants aside, he now had a responsibility. A few, actually. The first one was to make sure that Bond was safe and relatively healthy. After that, he needed to attempt to get into contact with Mallory and Eve. They needed to regroup and assess the situation, determine their losses, and make a plan for moving forward. Christ, they were going to be under quota for _months_. They'd be lucky If they didn't get shut down completely after this fiasco, even though it wasn't any of their faults. The hell was he supposed to put on his resume? He'd spent the past four years doing work for the _mafia_ , for Christ's sake. He couldn't very well put that. Past experience? _I'm rather proficient in money-laundering, am I hired?_

“You haven't lost your job yet.”

Q's head jerked up, and he fixed his eyes on Bond, pointedly _not_ blushing at the realization that he had been speaking aloud. He was in the middle of cleaning Bond's wound, and somehow, he'd lost time between obtaining the first aid kit and returning to the hotel room to help. “And I'd prefer it to remain that way,” he said, smoothing out the tape on the bandage a little harder than necessary. “I will leave my phone here with you so that you may contact the people that you need to contact.”

Bond raised an eyebrow as Q stepped back, setting his phone down on the nightstand. “I need to find Eve and Mallory. If you don't have any further need of me, then...”

“Stay.”

Q physically bit his tongue to stay his retort of “I'm not a dog.” But he moved to sit on the edge of Bond's bed, crossing his legs and rolling his shoulders back. “I'm not sure how much more good I am going to be able to do you,” he said. “With the exception of the basic first aid, my skill-set is primarily electronic.”

“Then you should put your electronic skills to use.” Bond nodded at the phone. “Contact your colleagues. Make sure they're safe. And when you're finished, I have a few messages for you to send for me.”

_A secretary,_ Q thought. _I've been made into a secretary._ He snatched up the phone, though, and punched in Eve's number, his hands beginning to shake a little as the realization that she might not pick up hit him. Christ, she could be _dead_ , and then last thing he'd said to her was to ask her if she was mad.

The ringing stopped, and for one terrifying moment, he thought his call was going to go to voice mail. Then the phone clicked, and Moneypenny's voice, rough and ragged, but very much alive, came over the line.

“Did you pick up my present, darling?”

Q let out a sigh of relief. Eve was all right. Alive, at least, and not in immediate danger. “I'm afraid it's going to need a trip to the cleaner's,” he answered, wincing slightly when he felt Bond's hand on his elbow. He squirmed away and began to pace. 

“You're such a clutz, darling. What did you spill on it this time?”

“Nothing of my own.” There. Moneypenny knew that he wasn't hurt, that he was safe, at least for the time being. 

“Thank God, Q. You had me worried. There was blood in the rubble...”

“Not mine,” Q emphasized. “Mallory?”

“Broken arm. He'll survive. Whose blood?”

Q glanced around, pointedly not making eye contact with Bond. “Fire and flashbombs.”

He could almost see Eve's eyes roll. “Her?”

Q shook his head. “Him” He could feel Bond's eyes on him, and he turned to face the single window in the room. “Just make sure you and Mallory and Tanner stay somewhere safe, all right? I don't know how long this is going to take.”

“Yes, darling.”

“I'm serious!” Q ran a hand through his hair, no doubt mussing it horribly. “Someone tried to kill Bond. They failed. They're going to figure that out, sooner or later, and I'd rather not have to worry about your safety as well as his and my own.”

Eve was silent for a long moment, the only sound the telltale static of fabric, telling him that she had the phone pressed up against the front of her blouse. Bond was moving behind him, restlessly, by the sound of it, but the bastard could bloody wait, at least until Q had assured himself that the people he cared about were okay.

A few moments later, the static ceased. “We'll be fine,” Eve told him, and Q let out a breath. “But Q? You keep yourself safe, too, do you understand? We're going to be having enough funerals without adding you to the list.”

“I promise you I have no intentions of dying,” Q said, well aware that his words weren't the promise Eve was looking for. “I will call you later, love. Take care.”

He hung up, slipping the phone into his pocket as he let out a soft sigh. He was about to turn around and gently demand that Bond stopped pacing, but the man seemed to anticipate his actions. Before he could move, there were arms snaking around his waist and a mouth attaching itself to Q's neck.

The hacker let out a gasp that was three-fifths shock and two-fifths sudden, undeniable arousal. He tilted his head to the side out of instinct, which Bond seemed to take as permission. Teeth were added to the equation a moment later, seeming to tear utterly mortifying whimpers from Q's throat every time they scraped over his pale skin.

It took his brain an embarrassingly long time to catch up to his body's current state of affairs, but when it did, it quickly made up for the lost time by throwing three separate trains of thought into his head. _Bond is with Vesper. Fuck, that feels good. You don't want this!_. Each replaced another before Q could quite get a hold of them, leaving him confused and flustered and far too turned on for his own good.

Bond's hands had migrated down to his thighs by the time Q came back to himself, and the bastard's mouth had sucked a stinging, no-doubt red mark on his neck. It _did_ feel good, because fate was an unfair bitch like that and made the obnoxiously handsome man Q was stuck with dangerous, unavailable, and good at sex. It was when Bond's hand moved in between Q's legs to cup his rapidly hardening cock that the hacker opened his mouth to tell him to fuck off, only to realize one important aspect he seemed to have forgotten. 

He couldn't tell Bond no. 

He was the bloody _boss_. Telling him no likely meant the cleaning crew would find his body decorating the motel after Bond left. What the fuck had he been thinking?

The realization had made him tense, and despite the direct stimulation, his cock had gone soft in his trousers. Bond stilled behind him, and Q screwed his eyes shut, waiting for whatever mafia bosses did to those who didn't want to have sex with them happen to him.

“What did I do?”

Confused once more, Q opened his eyes, letting Bond turn him around. He risked a glance up, his eyes widening even further when he noticed that the look on the man's face wasn't one of anger but of... was that worry? “What?”

Bond's expression softened around the edges. “It's all right if you have triggers, Q. I'm not a complete arsehole. I did something you weren't comfortable with. Tell me what it was, and I can make sure it doesn't happen again.”

Q blinked, more than a little shell-shocked. “This,” he ventured, a little timidly. “All of... this.”

Immediately, Bond had removed his hands and stepped back, looking serious and slightly... nauseated. “Christ. Why didn't you bloody say something?”

Q opened his mouth to answer, but instead of anything he _wanted_ to say coming out (I haven't had a shag in two years; You're James bloody Bond, how the hell am I supposed to say no to you?) he said, “Scared.”

If Q had been forced to name the expression that crossed Bond's face, he would have called it horror. Maybe revulsion. Either way, it didn't look right on his face at all. “I'm sorry, I am. I'm all right, really. You can continue. I'll be...”

“No.”

Q jerked in surprise at the finality in Bond's tone, looking up at him. “No?”

“No.” Bond straightened, his shoulders rolling back. “You are going to sit down, and I am going to make you a cup of tea.” He nodded at the bed. “Sit. Perhaps I'll be able to convince you that I am not, actually, a rapist.”

Q blushed deeply as he sat down, any arousal he had once had fading away immediately. He lowered his eyes because that _wasn't_ what he'd been thinking. Rapist was a strong work and it implied a whole slew of things that Q was in no way comfortable attributing to Bond. 

Then again, the man wasn't... he hadn't taken Q's botched refusal the way Q had thought he would. He was actually rather civil and decent, and that was more surprising than the fact that Bond was actually attracted to him. It was surprising enough that Q was still staring at the floor when Bond returned, startling when he set a mug of steaming liquid on the bedside table. He blinked owlishly at the obscenely patterned mug before risking a glance at Bond, who had settled into a chair in the corner.

“I... thank you.”

The blond inclined his head. Q looked away again, reaching out to carefully take the mug into his hands. He'd never been quite in this situation before, and his brain was still trying to figure out the appropriate response to a man who could kill him and never get caught trying to have sex with him.

He sat and sipped at his tea for a few minutes, letting the silence linger between them. It took another few moments for him to work up the nerve to speak again, but he didn't look at the man. “I don't think you're a rapist.”

Bond made a sound, somewhere between a chuckle and a snort. “A lack of consent or the ability to revoke that consent generally means rape, Q. And I'm sure you consider me a bastard already, but I would like to assure you that I do enjoy enthusiastic consent.”

Q blinked. “I... oh.”

The glance Bond gave him when he glanced over was nothing short of assessing, and he turned away almost immediately, setting the mug down and getting to his feet. “You should get some rest. You _were_ shot, Mr. Bond. And I am sure that tomorrow is going to...”

“Q.” Bond got to his feet as well, nodding at the bed. “Lay down.”

_Not a rapist,_ Q repeated in his head as he swallowed, slowly sitting down again. He toed off his shoes, hesitating before bringing his legs up and laying down, facing the door. A moment later, he felt the bed dip and the unfamiliar feeling of having another person in the same bed settled over him. _Not a rapist, Q. You're sharing a bed. Get a bloody grip._

He breathed in deeply, proud of himself for not even tensing when Bond's arm snaked around his waist, pulling him in flush against the warm, toned body behind him.

“Tomorrow,” Bond said, as if nothing had changed and they were still talking to each other from across the room. “Tomorrow, you are going to help me in tracking down those responsible for trying to kill me. It shouldn't be all that difficult. Vesper was one. I have suspicions about the others.”

Vesper.

Vesper _Lynd_.

Bond's... woman.

“You've perfected the art of keeping your enemies closer,” he said dryly, sounding far more confident than he felt. “Should I be worried?”

Bond laughed quietly behind him. “I don't think you're quite close enough. Give it time.”

Q was fairly certain that he could do that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look [at](http://static.baubridgekay.com.au/images/ss13_web_hero_02.jpg) [these](http://static.baubridgekay.com.au/images/ss13_web_hero_03.jpg) [suits](http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lTSwZfUg1o4/To0XxbF5jRI/AAAAAAAACX4/rs-GRW_uq-0/s1600/MJ_Bale-69.jpg).
> 
> Also, [Bright](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8l5nMCJKyYY) by Echosmith was on repeat while I was writing this.


	4. Hunstman

Q awoke slowly, in stages. The first realization that he came to was that he was warm, very warm. That thought was followed immediately by the memory of _who_ , exactly, was pressed up behind him, but his sleep-fogged brain didn't find that fact all too interesting. He felt comfortable and safe, and in the moment, that was all he wanted.

 

Bond stirred, the arm he had thrown over Q's waist tightening just a little. The hacker hesitated, and then laid his hand over Bond's, the touch feather-light, but still there. He swore he could feel the man smirk against his neck, and he definitely felt the puff of hot air as the man exhaled.

 

“Morning,” Bond murmured, and Q shivered a little at the foreign sensation of Bond's lips moving against the nape of his neck. He thought, briefly, that it was a shame that he was who he was, and Bond was Bond, because in another life, something between them just might have been possible. As things were, however... maybe he had been a fool to turn down Bond's advances the night before. At least he would have had a good lay.

 

“Morning,” he said in return, shifting a little so he could get up. Bond _didn't_ move, however. If anything, he held Q a little tighter, shaking his head.

 

“Don't you ever slow down?”

 

Q considered answering sarcastically for a moment, and then thought better of it. “Time is a luxury afforded to those above my pay grade. At my current status, being successful is directly proportional to hours worked, and as long as that remains the case, I'm afraid I can't allow 'slowing down' to be in my vocabulary.”

 

At second blush, maybe his response  _had_ been a little sarcastic. But even so, all of it was true. He had worked too hard to maintain his current lifestyle, unsatisfactory and complicated as it was, to risk losing it for a few moments of fun and relaxation. Even when the suggestion was coming from the very attractive man he was currently sharing a bed with. 

 

Bond raised an eyebrow, and then snorted his amusement, maneuvering Q in his arms until the dark-haired man was facing him, tucked against his chest. “You really are something else,” he said, and Q blushed at the almost fond tone of his voice.

 

“I'm not your type,” he said, even as his hands came up to rest on Bond's chest.

 

“Oh? And what is my type?”

 

“Miss Lynd,” Q answered. “Powerful. Female. Attractive. I could go on.” Admittedly, it was nice to be held, and the look on Bond's face was nice too – heat mixed with something like affection. Still, Q had a myriad of responsibilities to attend to, and he guessed that Bond did as well. He was the _boss_ , after all.

 

Reluctantly, Q sat up, half-expecting Bond not to allow him to. The man's hands  _did_ snag on his waist for a moment, but they dropped to the sheets afterward.

 

Standing, Q stretched before grabbing his phone off the nightstand. The battery was almost shot, but it would be enough to make a few quick calls. On the bed, Bond stretched before getting up as well, and Q didn't need a mirror to to know that Bond looked a million times better than him first thing in the morning. It wasn't fair, really. Self-consciously, Q ran a hand through his messy curls, trying to flatten them.

 

When Bond slipped into the bathroom, Q dialed Moneypenny's number and let it ring once, twice, before he started to worry. His relief was palpable when she finally did pick up with a muttered curse and a, “It's about bloody time. Had a nice morning, then?”

 

Q coughed. “Not nearly as nice as you're thinking, love. I'll be there soon. Did you... was anything salvaged from my lab?”

 

There was a pause. Then, “Sorry, Q. R's checking what made it to the cloud server, but none of the equipment survived.”

 

That's what Q had expected, but it still stung a little, deep in the pit of his stomach. Everything backed up to the cloud server automatically every fifteen minutes, but the equipment...Q had built most of their computers from the ground up. The thought of having to do all of that again, of replacing the actual paper files, of  _connecting a new bloody printer_ ...

 

“Q?”

 

Q jerked, straightening.

 

“I know you're in mourning, but was that all you needed?”

 

“In mourning. Q wanted to laugh, but it couldn't quite come out. “No, that's it. I think Bond is going to have someone come pick him up. I should be there soon.”

 

He could almost see Eve's raised eyebrow. “No encore?”

 

Despite himself, Q found himself blushing. “There was no  _performance_ ,”he said a bit stiffly. “Really, you're my  _wife_ . You shouldn't...”

 

“...want you to get shagged by a very attractive man?” Eve's voice was irritatingly playful. “As long as you're happy, Q.”

 

Q made a disgruntled noise before telling Eve goodbye and hanging up. Happy. Like happiness was really an option.

 

By the time Bond came out of the bathroom, showered, Q had done his best to tidy himself up. His clothes were beyond help, still covered in dust and torn in a handful of places, but he'd managed to wash up using a water bottle and the sleeve of his bloodied cardigan. And it wasn't as if Bon looked terribly better. There was still blood on his trousers, and his shirt was missing its buttons from whre Q had torn them off in his haste to get at the wound.

 

Bond raised an eyebrow, and Q dropped his gaze, flushing a little. “Do you need to make any calls?” he asked, holding out his phone.

 

The blond took it with a nod, slipping a hand into his pocket as he dialed a number. Smiling, he winked at Q, and then lifted his chin up a little. “Alec? I...” He trailed off, his expression going blank before it turned annoyed, and then changing again to amused. It made Q wonder what kind of person Bond let interrupt him.

 

A moment later, Bond looked almost sheepish. “I'm sorry,” he said, and Q was surprised at the honesty in his voice. “Vesper made an attempt, and...” He trailed off again, the sheepish look returning. “I'm  _fine_ , Alec. Their tech got me out.”

 

Q started a little at the mention of himself, and looked up in time to see Bond toss him another wink before he started to speak again. “No, I haven't. Oh, shut up. Not for lack of trying. He is rather attractive.”

 

Realizing that he was going to be permanently flushed around Bond, Q looked away, wishing he had something to fiddle with. At least then he could pretend he wasn't listening. And maybe then Bond wouldn't find it necessary to embarrass him.

 

Thankfully, when bond spoke again, the tone of his voice had changed to something more serious. “Sure. Q needs to be dropped... the tech, Alec. His name is Q.” He paused, and looked over at the dark-haired hacker. “What kind of name is Q?”

 

“A nickname,” Q answered, and Bond relayed that information to Alec.

 

“He wants to know what your real name is.”

 

Feeling bold, Q raised an eyebrow. “Then he can ask me himself, if he wants to know that badly.”

 

Bond laughed, paused, and then chuckled again. “Alec approves of you,” he said, and Q felt decidedly proud, though he wasn't sure why. He didn't even know who Alec was. Though by the sounds of it, he and Eve would get along. “Yes,” Bond continued. “You've got the address? Fantastic.” The blond hung up. “Our ride will be here in fifteen minutes.”

 

It took Q a moment to process the implication of what Bond had said. “You had him track the phone?” When Bond nodded, Q sighed, running a hand through his hair. It came away grainy. “I have the phone set up to reroute calls. The GPS is disabled. Any attempts to access it invoke security protocols, which send a fake location, as well as alerting my team.” Most of his team were likely dead, but Q didn't mention that. He snatched his phone back, quickly punching out a text to R, followed closely by a text with their actual location to the number Bond had called. “There. _Now_ our ride will be here in fifteen minutes.”

 

“Color me impressed.”

 

Q looked up, meeting Bond's eyes. Judging from the diameter of his pupils, 'color me aroused' would have been slightly more accurate. He felt his blush creeping back into his cheeks. “I have to implement my own security,” he said, almost defensively. “I don't get to carry a gun.”

 

Bond's look turned appraising again, but Q felt slightly less threatened this time. “No,” Bond said after a long moment, nodding. “But you're still rather dangerous, aren't you?”

 

Q shrugged. “I have to get by,” he said, feigning indifference. “I steal things for a living. If I was unable to protect myself or my information, I wouldn't survive the end of the week.”

 

Bond made a noise in his throat. “You steal things? Surely your job description is slightly more complicated than that.”

 

“Zeroes.”

 

“What?”

 

Q couldn't help but smile a little. “I steal zeroes. Not as glamorous as being an art thief, I'm afraid, but there's far less field work and no need to dress solely in black.” He glanced down at his phone. “We should go downstairs. Your friend will be here soon.”

 

Bond opened his mouth, like he wanted to ask something else, but he closed it a moment later and nodded, following Q out of the room. They were in the lift before Q found the nerve to venture, “My phone runs a GPS track on the last number dialed.” His voice was almost embarrassed. “It will cancel once I get within ten meters of the other phone.”

 

“Remind me to keep you on our side,” Bond said dryly. “Tell me again why you're not running this branch?”

 

“Not much of a people person,” Q answered, stepping out of the lift when the doors opened. “I prefer to work behind the scenes, honestly. Computers don't care if you've been awake for 48 hours and look like shite.” He reached up to push the outside doors open, and then coughed when the movement made dust from his shirt puff up.

 

If they had been in another part of town, their ragged appearances would have attracted attention. As it was, the missing buttons on Bond's shirt were getting him a few looks, though Q wasn't entirely sure if the passerby were looking at the state of his clothes or the precious few inches of gorgeous skin the open shirt revealed.

 

Q knew  _exactly_ what was attracting his own attention, but thankfully, before he could make a complete fool of himself by getting caught staring at the thin strip of skin visible, a car pulled up in front of them. He waited for Bond to give some sort of sign that it was indeed for them, but before he could, the driver's side window rolled down to reveal a blond-haired man. He was grinning in a way that would have been infectious if it hadn't been so damn intimidating. He looked like killing came easily to him, and Q wasn't entirely sure if he wanted to get into the car with him.

 

“He _is_ pretty.”

 

Q flushed, ducking his head down. Because of the way his eyes were fixed firmly on the ground, he couldn't see Bond's expression in the man's voice when he said, “Not now, Alex. He's shy. Buy him dinner first, at least.”

 

If ti was possible, Q flushed deeper, keeping his head down as he followed Bond into the car. He was slightly surprised that the older man chose to sit in the back seat, though after the day he'd had, the fact that things could still surprise him was in and of itself surprising. In a good way, of course, but maybe that was just shock.

 

By the time Q looked up again, they were out on the street, heading in a direction decidedly away from where he needed to go. He gave it another few moments, and then coughed quietly, meeting Bond's eyes when the man looked over at him. “I-I'm...” He coughed again, trying to clear his throat. “I need to go in the other direction. Towards Hermitage Road.”

 

For a moment, Q thought that Bond wasn't going to answer him. The blond just looked at him for a moment, eyebrows raised, and Q had to wonder if he'd willingly gotten into a car that wasn't ever going to take him home. He'd have to find a way to get back, but that wouldn't be a problem if Bond and Alec dropped him off soon. He could catch a cab. Or something. But the farther away they got, the harder it would be to get to Eve and Mallory and the surviving members of his team, and the longer it would take to get their operation back off the ground. And the longer that took...

 

“As soon as we get clothes.”

 

Q started, blinking up at Bond. “What?”

 

“Clothes,” Alec said from the front seat. “You two look far less than attractive right now. You're lucky I picked you up to begin with. I have standards, you know. I've picked up rent boys cleaner than you two, and there was even this one that...”

 

“We'll attract too much of the wrong kind of attention,” Bond cut in, sending Alec an annoyed look through the rearview mirror. “What he's trying to say is that we'll be getting new clothes before we take you back.”

 

“Oh.” Q glanced down at his clothes, seeing all the little rips and tears again. Shame. He'd liked those trousers. “Where are we going to get clothes?”

 

Bond smiled.

 

* * *

 

 

Twenty minutes later, they were on Savile Row, attracting  _all_ the wrong sorts of attention. Well, Q and Bond were, though Q had taken to walking behind the blond with his eyes on the ground, avoiding eye contact as much as possible. While it looked more like they had gotten mugged than anything else, Q still didn't like the disinterested pity in their eyes. 

 

And to top it off, there wasn't a cardigan in sight.

 

He didn't see the name of the shop they went into, too busy trying not to make eye contact with anyone. He didn't look up until Alec nudged him, saying, “Q,” under his breath.

 

And then... Oh. Savile Row, so he should have known. The stuffed stag on the wall told him that they were inside Hunstman, and that meant...

 

“We'll be needing two complete suits,” Bond said. “One gray, for me, white shirt, muted tie. And for my friend...” He glanced at Q, his eyes evaluating. “Black suit, violet shirt. Black tie, I think, no? A thin one.”

 

The tailor also looked Q up and down, taking measurements with his eyes. “Cobalt, Mr. Bond. Not violet. Do you want to make the poor boy look more pale than he already is? Also, not black. You and your absolutes. Charcoal pinstripes, I think. Yes, charcoal and cobalt. Come along, Mr. Bond, and... guest. Why haven't you brought this one in before? He has lovely lines.”

 

Obediently, Q followed Bond and the tailor into the back of the shop. The tailor was chatting with Bond about a myriad of things, cuts and fabrics, but he was only half-listening, leaned up against the wall behind Bond. They were going to be here for  _hours_ , because he highly doubted Bond wore suits that weren't tailored. Hours.

 

It didn't take hours.

 

Apparently, the tailor kept suits tailored to Bond on hand. It made Q wonder just how often Bond showed up in immediate need of impeccable suits, but at the same time, he was grateful, And, well, Bond looked  _incredible_ in the suit, with the fabric hugging his muscled body oh so well. Bond's dressing distracted him for just long enough that he forgot about the fact that  _he_ had to be dressed as well.

 

After Bond was sprawled across one of the most comfortable chairs Q had ever had the good fortune to come across, the tailor, who had since been introduced as Geoffrey, turned to Q, reaching out to pat his shoulders. “Don't you worry, my boy.”

 

Twenty minutes later, Q was standing in front of a full-length mirror, wearing a suit that had a price tag close to  £ 4000\. Q was sure that he hadn't spent that much money on clothes in his entire life, period. 

 

He had to admit that he looked decent, though. He was wearing a three-piece charcoal-colored suit with faint, pale pinstripes, with a cobalt blue shirt underneath. The tailor hadn't given him a tie, and Q found that he rather liked the look. With the top two buttons of his shirt undone, and the jacket left open, it was a look very, very different from his normal one.

 

Behind him, Alec let out a low whistle. Well. Doesn't he clean up nicely? You were right about him being pretty.”

 

Bond stepped up as well, looking at Q through the mirror. He didn't comment, though Q could feel his approval. It was nice. The material was smooth and soft against his skin, and it wasn't nearly as stuffy or constricting as he remembered the last suit he had worn being.

 

“I still think the violet would have looked nice,” Bond said after a moment, and Q couldn't help but smile at the bit of petulance in his voice.

 

Geoffrey chuckled. “But where is the fun in getting everything you want, Mr. Bond? Everything aside, I assure you that cobalt and violet look very similar on the floor with the lights off.”

 

Q expected Bond to be annoyed at the comment, at the very least. Something so personal, coming from... well, Q didn't exactly know what Bond's relationship with the tailor was, but the man was significantly older than the blond. With a sigh, Q gave up trying to understand why Bond chuckled. It didn't matter. He was going home.

 

* * *

 

 

An hour later, Q was stepping out of the car once more, this time in the Harringay Warehouse District. He spotted Moneypenny almost immediately, standing on the sidewalk outside their secondary headquarters, apparently engaged in a heated conversation with someone on the phone. She turned when she heard the car door closed, snapping the phone shut immediately. “Q!”

 

He wrapped his arms around her when she ran over to hug him, letting himself take comfort in her embrace. While lovers they were not, the best of friends they were, and he was supremely glad to have a friend in that moment.

 

“I told you I was all right,” he said when she finally pulled away, holding him at arm's length.

 

“And you can't blame me for worrying,” Eve countered, her eyes taking in Q's new clothes. “Though I see that was completely unnecessary. I haven't seen you in a suit since our wedding day, darling. Is there something you'd like to tell me?” Without waiting for an answer, Eve turned to Bond, who was standing a few feet behind Q. “Thank you for bringing him back.” She paused, her eyes flickering to Alec. “Mr...?”

 

“Trevelyan,” Alec said, stepping forward to take her hand and press a kiss to her knuckles. “But you can call me Alec. Or anything else you like. I'm very flexible.”

 

Q had seen that particular look on Eve's face enough to know exactly what it was. Vesper had gotten the same one. That was  _interest_ , the kind that ended with him staying in a hotel for the weekend to escape the incessant moaning coming from her bedroom. And by the looks of it, the feeling was entirely mutual.

 

Alec and Moneypenny held eye contact long enough that Q began to plan how to erase charges for public indecency from both their records. Before they could go beyond what Q had once heard Mallory refer to as “eye-fucking,” Bond stepped forward, nudging Alec's elbow. “As beautiful of a couple you two make, we really need to be going.”

 

The man's eyes met Q's, and it was almost as if he was disappointed. Q firmly refused to think about  _why_ Bond would be disappointed. That was for later. And the privacy of his own room.

 

Alec kissed Moneypenny's knuckles again with a murmured, “It has been a pleasure,” and to Q's continuing embarrassment, Bond did the same to him. He didn't release Q's hand for a long moment, though, holding his gaze.

 

“Thank you,” he said, after a pause. “For everything.”

 

* * *

 

 

Two hours later, when Bond and Alec were long gone and Q was in the middle of planning the funerals for most of his team, he paused just long enough to initiate a search-and-find program. Chances were it wouldn't find  _her_ , but it was worth a shot.

 

And maybe, just maybe, if he found Vesper, he'd be able to see Bond again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look [at](http://www.h-huntsman.com/data/media/collections/LC%202.jpeg) [these](http://www.h-huntsman.com/data/media/collections_landscape/6-9.jpeg) [suits](http://www.h-huntsman.com/data/media/collections_landscape/8-9.jpeg).


	5. Hugo Boss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic now has a [Spotify playlist](http://open.spotify.com/user/prisoner1102/playlist/7nbP0B4CRs8zy7JdLf1TMZ)! It's collaborative, so if any of you wonderful people stumble across a song that goes with the fic, feel free to add it.
> 
> Also, look [at](http://images.hugoboss.com/is/image/boss/06_hbna50268370_010_10?%24re_detail%24) [these](http://thumbs3.ebaystatic.com/d/l225/m/mnsJQiRIL2xiFvlvwPOnlhQ.jpg) [suits](http://fashionandtorah.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/05/hugo.jpg) (especially the last one hnnnng leather gloves).

Q had never been so distinctly aware of time passing. Normally, one day blended into the next, broken up only by the completion of a project, or the initiation of another. Now, though... now things had changed, and it was as if time had centered itself around James Bond.

Four days after Bond had bought him the suit, they had the funerals for those who had died in the collapse. Q wore the suit, mourned his underlings, and wondered if Bond had found someone to replace Vesper. His programme had found no traces of the woman, so he widened the parameters and began searching again.

Nine days after Bond had assured him that he wasn't actually a rapist, all of Q's injuries had healed, and he spent the night muffling his moans with his pillow as he jerked himself to the memory of Bond's hands and mouth on his body. After he came, he thought about remotely hacking the man's phone, and fell asleep while wondering what Bond would do if he just showed up.

Fifteen days after Q had spent the night pressed up against one of the most dangerous men in the world, he stayed up for two nights in a row to rewrite the programme that was searching for Vesper. He called it FindTheBitch, and giggled until Eve came into his room and told him to go to sleep, dammit. 

Twenty-one days after Q had not slept with the most attractive man he'd ever laid eyes on, FindTheBitch finally printed a result. It was small, almost infinitesimally so, but it was something, and Q spent seventeen straight hours investigating the 16 digits his programme had given him.

Twenty-three days after Bond had bid Q goodbye, Q traced the sixteen digits back to a bank account in Venice. A bit of deeper digging told him that the entire bank was a front, but for what, he didn't know quite yet.

Twenty-seven days after Bond had kissed Q's knuckles, the hacker discovered exactly what the bank was a front for. Not only did the operators run a very efficient Ponzi scheme, but they also laundered large amounts of money, and it just so happened that they had funneled money into two very specific accounts.

Twenty-nine days after Q had dragged Bond out of a broken building, he discovered the identities of the two account holders. The first, who had used the credit card FindTheBitch had found, belonged to none other than The Bitch herself. But the other account... that was even more interesting. With a little investigation, Q discovered that it belonged to a forger.

Thirty days after Bond had sucked a mark onto his neck, Q hacked the forger's personal computer and downloaded the files of the false papers she had made for Vesper. And after that, well... writing a programme to track the false identities was child's play.

Yes, thirty days after Q told Bond that he was scared of having sex with him, he'd managed to track down the woman who had tried to kill the mafioso. He was actually rather proud of himself, and that night he put together a file to send to the man in the morning. But before he could send it, something else happened to make that action rather... purposeless.

Thirty-one days after Q had seen Saville Row for the first time in his life, James Bond knocked on his door again. 

For a moment, Q simply stood there, not blinking, eyes fixed on the man in front of him. He'd fully expected to never see Bond again, because he really doubted there was any reason for him to come back. But there he was, looking as dashing as ever, clad in a pale gray suit and a blue patterned tie. 

“Aren't you going to invite me in?” Bond asked, a smirk on his lips. Q flushed, stuttering a little as he stepped aside to let the mafioso into his office.

“What are you doing here?”

And that was truly, incredibly smooth. Q almost apologized, but the amused look on Bond's face made him flush again, and he lost his words.

“I can't pay my favourite hacker a visit?” Bond asked, pseudo-innocently, which made Q absolutely sure that Bond wasn't there socially. “I'm not sure I like the idea you have of me, Q.”

“I doubt what I think of you is of any consequence,” Q answered, moving to stand behind his desk, putting it between himself and Bond. He wasn't frightened, per se, but his guard was up a little. “Is there something I can help you with? As I'm sure you know, we're still not back at 100% productivity, here.” Now, for a way to say 'I'm too busy to dawdle' without saying 'I'm too busy to dawdle'... “I'm afraid I'm a little pressed for time.” 

Q didn't look up, shuffling a few papers on his desk, so he didn't see the look on Bond's face. If he had cared to glance up, he would have seen the Bond wore a look that was some mixture of impressed and amused, and most definitely not annoyed or irritated. 

“I'll be concise, then,” Bond murmured, leaning up against the door frame. “My sources have informed me that you've managed to locate Vesper.”

Q froze, his heartbeat kicking into overdrive. Bond knew. How did Bond know? As far as Q could tell, no one had been monitoring his programme. And, realistically, he would have known if someone had. So where had Bond gotten his information? Mallory? Eve?

“Your sources are disturbingly accurate,” Q said, after clearing his throat. “Yes. I have. I wanted to make certain that my information was accurate before I sent it to you.” Without looking up, he tapped a few keys on his keyboard, and then gestured the screen. “It's all there. I haven't looked at the specifics, and I'll delete it all the moment you give me the word.”

Still wary of looking up, Q stepped aside so that Bond could look at the screen. It didn't seem as if the man was angry, but then again, he'd had someone somehow watching the programme. Perhaps he'd simply had enough time to school his reactions.

Bond stepped around the desk, and Q was very suddenly aware of just how close they were. If he wanted to, he could reached out to touch Bond's shoulder. He did want to, at least a little, but he shoved his hands into his pockets instead as he waited for Bond to stop looking at the computer.

A few moments later, the man turned around. “Impressive,” he said, and Q noted the actual honesty in his voice. “Alec didn't believe you actually managed to find her. He warned me that you two were most likely working in tandem.”

Q felt himself bristle at that, and he raised his head a little. “Her attempt on your life also endangered mine,” he said, flatly. “I don't make a habit of making alliances with those who have, directly or indirectly, tried to kill me.”

Of course, as soon as he had said them, Q regretted the words, his face flushing a deep red and his mouth snapping shut. Bond hadn't accused him of anything, and from the amused look on the man's face, he hadn't been intending to. Q's flush deepened, and he looked at the ground.

“The programme is... sophisticated,” he said. “It's not a surprise your friend questioned its validity.”

Bond chuckled at that, and Q couldn't help but smile a little. “I suppose that's fair,” the mafioso said. “He implies that you're a traitor, and you imply that he's ignorant and unsophisticated.” He paused. “I was having you followed, however. That's how I know about the programme. And one of the reasons I didn't believe Alec.”

Surprisingly, Q realized that he wasn't all that irked about Bond putting a tail on him. He understood. Had their positions been reversed, he would have made the same decision. Now, though... Bond had told him. Which meant that the man did trust him now, at least a little. And that was the terrifying part. A man like Bond didn't exactly trust haphazardly. The people he trusted, he expected things from. So, what did he expect from Q?

“I'm glad I passed the test,” Q said mildly. Then, changing the subject to something other than himself, he said, “That information is only twenty minutes old. It runs close to real time – I haven't refined it quite enough for that level of precision. But it does refresh whenever one of the values change. I'll make the logs available to you as well, but she, or, rather, the credit card she's been using, hasn't left Venice for going on...” He leaned over, tapping a few keys. “Almost four weeks. I also have ATM surveillance footage as proof, if you'd like to see it. She is in Venice, and is likely going to be staying here for quite a while.”

Q didn't feel like it was a lot of information. He didn't have an address, he had one accomplice, and one, two-minute long ATM video. But Bond was looking at Q like the man had handed him the Holy Grail, and that was definitely... new.

“I don't know how Mallory managed to find you,” the man said eventually, “but I am very glad he did. And, now, I'm afraid I'm going to have to steal you away from him.”

Q blinked at that. Steal him away? “I'm sure Mallory won't mind you taking up my time for the duration of your visit,” he said. “He still feels rather guilty about the last time.”

Bond chuckled, though Q wasn't exactly sure what the man found so amusing. It wasn't as if Mallory was going to complain about Bond taking up Q's time. Hell, Q was one of the only reasons that they were even close to running at the same capacity they had been before... Vesper. A look at Bond's expression, however, told Q that Bond had something else entirely in mind.

“I had a bit of a more permanent arrangement in mind,” Bond clarified, and Christ, his voice had dropped a half-octave, at least. “You've truly impressed me, Q. And while I don't know what you're getting paid here, I can assure you that I can beat it.” The man smiled, and the expression was a little predatory, and Q felt very much like a mouse being backed into a corner by a very large, very insistent tomcat.

“I'm not sure I'll be of much use anywhere but here,” Q pointed out slowly, swallowing. “I'm not very intimidating, or good with a gun, or particularly good with interpersonal shite.” He looked up at Bond. “Though, technically, it wouldn't be stealing. I do work for you, sir, even though I report to Mallory.”

That earned another chuckle from Bond, and Q still couldn't understand what was so damn funny. As arrogant as it sounded, his talents would be wasted in working directly for Bond. Unless... unless, of course, Bond didn't want him to work. But then again, he didn't seem like the type to ask someone who had already turned him down to warm his bed.

Bond, oblivious of Q's internal dialogue, nodded at the computer screen. “I want more information,” he said. “As much as you can get me. And I want to be able to ascertain her location, 24/7, until I decide what needs to be done.”

The man must really have loved Vesper, Q thought. If anyone else had tried to kill him, Q couldn't see a scenario in which they would still be alive, but with Vesper... well, it was understandable, and Q felt his expression soften, a little.

“I will provide you with the setup you need,” Bond continued. “And, of course, a room for you and your... wife.” The man smiled. “Or two, if you prefer.”

Ignoring the 'room' comment, Q crossed his arms. “But what would I do?” he asked. “I get very bored, very easily, and when I get bored my productivity actually decreases.” Which was true. He couldn't focus properly if he had too few projects in the works.

Bond seemed to actually consider that for a moment. Eventually, he said, “Well, I don't see any reason why you couldn't continue the work you do here.” He shrugged. “I simply was you close, so that checking in doesn't require a trip to London.”

Q bit his lip. “To London? Then where would I be moving to, exactly?”

* * *

“Fucking Scotland.”

Q wrapped his scarf that much tighter around his neck, pulling Eve's first case out of the boot of the car. He knew, logically, that the weather wasn't all that different, but it felt more dreary, and that did nothing for his mood. The fact that Eve and Alec had spent the entire trip flirting with each other didn't help, either. Perhaps if Bond had tagged along, things would have been different, but the man had had other business to attend to. Bastard.

Q himself only had one case. It contained his personal laptop, two mobile phones, and the few clothes that he owned. Bond had promised to outfit him with a workstation, equipped with whatever he wanted, though was certain that the man didn't know what that would entail. No matter. His machines were in storage in London, if he did end up needing them.

He left the rest of Eve's belongings in the car for Alec to deal with, turning his attention to the veritable mansion in front of him. He could definitely see how Bond lived there. The house, like the man, was more than slightly imposing, strong, and cold. Q suppressed a shudder as he stepped over the threshold...

...and stopped when he was greeted by the sight of two very large black dogs. He started a little, jerking back before realizing that they were leashed. Looking up, he met the eyes of the people holding the leashes, smiling a little uneasy smile. “I'm Q,” he offered, glancing between the man and the woman. They were both older, but from the downright steel and ice in their gazes, Q guessed that they were, in some way, related to Bond. “I believe I'm expected? Bond said he wouldn't be here, but that we could put our things in our rooms and...”

He stopped when the woman snorted, though it didn't seem to be out of derision. “So you're Q, hmm?” She looked him up and down, and Q felt suddenly, oddly, exposed. “I have to say, from all he's spoken of you, I expected different.”

“Be nice to the boy,” the man said, nudging her as Q tried to process the fact that Bond had spoken of him at all, much less enough to make an impression. The man stepped forward, holding out his hand. “Kincade. Good to meet you, boy. And this is Emma.”

Q shook the man, Kincade's, hand, and nodded at the woman, who was still looking at him like he was a Sunday crossword she needed to solve. Finally, she huffed. “Well, I suppose he has his reason. He does say you have some quite impressive skills, even if...”

“Emma,” Kincade cut in. “Shall we let the boy get settled, perhaps before we start questioning him?” the man's tone was fond, even if his words were slightly intimidating. Questioning? Honest to God questioning? Bond hadn't mentioned anything about that.

The woman (Q had a hard time fitting the name 'Emma' to her) nodded, tugging on the dog's leash. “Very well. Though I'm too old to be kept up at night by rattling headboards. Make sure he's on the other side of the house. Come along, Sasha.”

With that, the woman left, leaving Q slightly flushed at the implication of her words. Rattling headboards? How often did Bond bring people here that that was her only stipulation?

Kincade jerked him out of his thoughts by clapping him on the shoulder. “She really is lovely,” he said, turning to lead Q down a hallway. “Just needs some time to warm up to ya.” He didn't go far before stopping in front of a door. “James said this one's for you, and the one to the left is for your workshop. The one on the other side is for your lady friend.” The man laughed a little, and Q had the uncomfortable feeling that he knew exactly how friendly Q and Eve were. “James' is just on the other side of the hall.”

The man pointed to the door directly opposite Q's. Of course. Of course the mafioso's bedroom would be bloody there.

“Thank you,” Q said, pushing open the door to his own bedroom and setting his case down inside. “Do you... is there any way to tell when Bond will be back?”

The man chuckled again. “He keeps his own schedule,” he answered. “Never do know where and when he's s'posed to be.” He paused, and then winked at Q. “But now you're here, eh? Perhaps he won't be all that interested in dallying when he's got a pretty face at home.”

A pretty face.

Q was most definitely torn between never wanting to see Bond again, and needed to see him exactly that instant. Just out of curiosity of course. He wanted his office set up ASAP.


	6. Yves Saint Laurent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait, you guys. School hit me hard.
> 
> Also, small trigger warning for a panic attack Q has at the end of the chapter.

While the setup at Skyfall wasn't anything like what he'd had in London, it was enough, at least temporarily. Q had been expecting his office to be an empty room, _maybe_ with a a dual-core tower set up, but definitely nothing fancy. Nothing like the custom-made tower he had in storage, and while the situation wasn't exactly _dire_ , he was definitely lacking materials. 

There _was_ only a single towers, though it had a quad-core processor, and there was a monitor. A single monitor, and a swivel chair, and that was it. Q didn't sit yet, though. Putting his hands on his hips, he surveyed the small room, debating his choices. 

Thank _God_ he'd brought some of his own equipment.

* * *

Feet up on the desk, and laptop balanced on his thighs, Q set to work a half-hour later. He opened up the main component of FindTheBitch, and, with a cup of tea at his side, he began to refine the programme. Now that he knew the general area the Vesper was located in, he could start to track her specific movements and begin to construct a schedule of her daily activities, which would, with any luck, help Bond locate her when he got back. Q supposed that the fact that the information he was collecting was going to most likely lead to this woman's death should have affected him more than it did, but every time a doubt flashed through his mind, he remembered that the explosion she had caused trying to kill Bond had killed a number of his minions, his friends, and any remnants of guilt he might have had fled.

Vesper's day, in essence, was dull. Every morning at 7:30. she would swipe her card at a cafe that Q estimated was about three blocks from where she was living. While she wasn't stupid enough to pay rent with her card, if she even /was/ paying rent, Q was able to build an algorithm to triangulate her likely living space with the information he collected about her activities.

Other than the daily trip to the cafe, the rest of Vesper's schedule, if she had one, was scattered. Q caught her on an ATM's security camera once, but the Venetian canals lacked anything that remotely resembled a traffic camera, so he was unable to track her past that. He did, however, tag the serial numbers of the bills she withdrew, just in case.

The reality was, though, that he could only spend so many hours on the programme. With the limited amount of data he was receiving, and the limited capacity of his equipment, a lot of his time was filled by simply _waiting_.

Four days after Q moved into Skyfall, Bond still wasn't back, although no one really seemed worried. Q, though... Q was worried. Bond was the entire reason he was there, away from Mallory and his minions and his equipment, and while he'd done what Bond had asked him to to the best of his ability, he couldn't continue without a directive from the man. If Bond simply wanted him to keep surveillance, he could hack one of the private satellites and get more specific information. But if he wanted to end the... the threat, Q needed to do a risk analysis. He'd have to modify an old program to factor in population density throughout the day, and Vesper's unique travel pattern, and the weather, and local events, and...

Q needed Bond _back_.

When another three days of 7:30am coffee stops, Moneypenny's incessant flirting with Alec, Kincade calling Q 'boy' and 'son,' and a distinct lack of processing power passing, Q _really _started to worry. Mallory, at least, had implemented protocols that anyone in the filed had to follow, so that there weren't days on end of radio silence. Then again, Q supposed, Bond had no reason to contact _him___. If he was keeping in touch with anyone, it was likely Alec, or Kincade. And while that shouldn't have irritated Q, it did. He was irritated.

Eve noticed on day eight, when he didn't stumble out of bed until nearly noon. She was in the kitchen when he made his way in for a cup of tea and some sort of breakfast, and she fixed him with an unamused look. 

“It's like you're deteriorating,” she said, and Q snorted his laughter.

“I'm enjoying the reprieve,” he lied. Moneypenny raised an eyebrow, and Q looked at the floor. She really did know him too well, which made lying very, very difficult. “I'm not deteriorating,” he said, and it sounded petulant, even to his own ears. “I'm simply... stagnant. As soon as Bond gets back, I'll be able to finish the job, and then I'll get back to my own projects.” He risked a glance upwards. “I promise?”

Moneypenny pursed her lips, but she nodded, and then reached out and drew Q into an embrace. For a moment, Q stiffened, and then he sighed, relaxing into it. “Take care of yourself,” she murmured. “I don't like seeing you like this.”

Pulling back, Q met Moneypenny's eyes. “I'm fine,” he assured here. “I promise. Don't fret.”

“Who's fretting?”

If Bond's voice hadn't startled him so badly, Q might have rolled his eyes, or made a comment about Bond's business and how this wasn't a part of it, but as it was, he spun around, looking slightly guilty, like he'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “You're back,” he said, and nearly kicked Moneypenny when she chuckled and murmured something about denial before leaving.

“Business took longer than expected,” Bond answered. “My apologies.” There was distaste in his voice, and Q wondered, almost absently, if the person responsible for the delay was dead. Before he could tell Bond that it was all right, however, the man continued. “I was hoping you would join be for dinner, Q. We haven't discussed the details of the equipment you need, and yes, I am aware that what I provided you with is rather...”

“Lackluster?” Q finished, and Bond chuckled. 

“Lackluster,” he agreed. “So, are you free?”

Q blinked, and then realized that Bond was actually being serious. He was giving him the option to say no if he wanted to. Q frowned. “I'm free,” he said. “Though dinner isn't necessary. I can make a lot of things I need – I have most of them in storage.” He paused, his eyes falling to where the top two buttons of Bond's shirt were undone. He could see the edge of a bandage, and his frown deepened. “You're hurt.”

Bond glanced down at his chest. “A scratch,” he said dismissively, but Q wasn't an idiot. He knew he didn't bandage scratches. His disbelief must have shown on his face, because Bond sighed a moment later. “I got shot,” he said. “There. Happy now?”

“Happy?” Q snapped, not quite registering the surprise on Bond's face at his tone of voice. “No, I'm not happy. You should be resting, in a bed. Definitely not up and moving. Did you even see a proper doctor?” Bond shook his head, almost sheepishly, and Q's mouth tightened into a thin line. “Of course not.” He pointed down the hall. “You need to rest.”

“Have dinner with me and I will.”

Q looked at Bond blankly. What? Those were his terms? Dinner, in exchange for following the most obvious advice that could be given in the situation?

“Very well,” he agreed. “Dinner. And you'll spend the next few days _not_ traipsing around the world, getting shot at?”

Bond chuckled. “You have my word,” he said. “Though I didn't expect you to be quite so vehement.”

To be honest, Q hadn't expected it, either. He chalked it up to self-preservation, because if something happened to Bond, Q was going to be that much less safe. Yes, that's what it was. “There isn't anything wrong with being concerned for my employer,” he said, which drew another chuckle from Bond. “What time?”

“Seven,” Bond answered, and after he left, Q realized that he needed to shower, badly. And perhaps do a load of laundry, since he hadn't changed out of his current clothes in three days.

* * *

It took Q walking into the dining hall to realize that he was the _only_ one Bond had invited to dinner. The long table was set for two, and Bond was nowhere to be seen, but for that, Q was glad. He needed a moment to process the fact that there were bloody _candles_ on the table and that this was the closest he'd gotten to a date in a long time.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and when he glanced down, the message on the screen read _'In the kitchen, to your left.'_ For a moment, Q considered simply turning around and going back to his room and going to sleep instead of dealing with Bond and the way his body seemed to always react to him, but he remembered the list in his pocket and sighed. He needed the equipment. 

So, rolling his shoulders back, he made his way around the corner and into the kitchen, pausing when he saw Bond standing next to the stove. The man was clad in one of his designer, tailored suits, but the jacket was open, and the first two buttons of the shirt were still undone, so Q could see the edges of the bandage.

“You're cooking”

It came out sounding almost accusatory, and Bond looked up, raising an eyebrow. Q hastily continued. “I'm just... surprised. Don't you have someone who does this for you?”

Bond's expression softened fast enough that Q realized he'd never been truly irritated at all. “I do,” the man said, stirring a pan of what appeared to be various kinds of seafood. Q found that his mouth was watering, and he tried to remember if he'd actually eaten breakfast, earlier. “But there's only two of us, and I haven't had the pleasure of cooking for someone other than Alec for far too long.” He looked over at Q, smiling in a way that made heat flood Q's body.

Fumbling, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his list, only just managing not to tear it in his haste. “I wrote down what I need,” he said, resolutely looking at the paper and not at Bond. “It's not much, though some of these will make my job go a little faster, and...”

Q trailed off as Bond plucked the paper from his fingers. He watched as the man folded it and slipped it into his back pocket, and maybe Q's eyes lingered on Bond's arse a little too long. Whatever. It was Bond's fault for taking his list. 

“Never mix business with pleasure,” Bond said, and smiled again in that way that made Q want to steady himself against the man's chest.

Though he did wonder when dinner itself had become less about business and more about pleasure.

* * *

Dinner ended up being very pleasurable. Bond had made linguine with a white seafood sauce, and he'd paired it with a green salad and a white wine. Q may or may not have moaned a little at his first taste of properly cooked food in over a week, and he most definitely flushed when Bond looked up and met his eyes, though there was warmth there, and maybe some of that warmth curled low in Q's belly.

True to what he had said, Bond didn't bring up anything remotely business-like. Instead, he talked to Q about his life, asked about his interests, his accomplishments, and listened and responded to every answer. It was... refreshing, and Q found himself relaxing and actually enjoying the conversation, the wine, the food, and Bond's presence, though not necessarily in that order.

Close to an hour and half later, the plates had been pushed away, and Q was smiling easily, laughing at a dry, slightly inappropriate joke Bond had made a moment before. It was comfortable in a way he hadn't experienced in a long time, and the glass-and-a-half of wine he'd consumed, while not nearly enough to get him drunk, had warmed him up nicely and loosened his muscles just enough.

“You can bring people by, if you want.”

Q looked up, and it took him a moment to process the words, because Bond's tone had shifted from overly cheery to slightly serious. They were back to business, then. Q straightened in his chair.

“I shouldn't have to bring in outside help,” he said, warm buzz slowly starting to fade. “She's not making tracking her easy, per se, but she's no expert. Neither are the people she's working with.”

Bond raised an eyebrow, obviously amused. “Good to know,” he said, “but that wasn't exactly what I meant.”

Q frowned. “Then I'm not entirely sure what you did mean. I don't exactly...”

“Personal friends,” Bond clarified, and Q began to feel a faint flush tint his cheeks and neck. “From what I understood, you're not actually occupied by the job I've given you all day. If you wanted to have a gentleman caller over...”

“I'm _married_ ,” Q bit out, feeling his breaths starting to come a little faster, and no, he was not going to have a panic attack, not here, not in front of James bloody Bond. Not again.

“Must be difficult, being married to a woman when you're gay.”

Q didn't even realize he was moving until he was in the hall, feeling slightly dizzy and more than a little nauseated. Bond had _said_ it, and maybe it wasn't a big deal for him, since Q was fairly certain that Bond could have anyone in the world killed if he wanted to, but Q couldn't. Q was far enough down the food chain that no one would think twice about making him disappear.

The sound of Bond calling his name met his ears, making another swell of panic rise up in him. No. He couldn't deal with Bond, not then.

Stumbling back to his room with his hand pressed over his mouth, half to prevent vomiting and half to prevent _hyperventilation_ , he all but collapsed as the door closed behind him. He was shaking damn near uncontrollably, fingers jittering against his scalp as he ran a hand through his hair. 

_Goddamn_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look [at](http://cdn.is.bluefly.com/mgen/Bluefly/eqzoom85.ms?img=321111101.pct&outputx=583&outputy=700&level=1&ver=6) [these](http://www.fashionhomesales.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/08/YVES-SAINT-LAURENT-SUITS.jpg) [suits](http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PjGg7T3XfYE/UT2F4kV499I/AAAAAAAAAwY/0YjTfzTDyNs/s1600/1.jpg).
> 
> Also, go check out the [Spotify playlist](http://open.spotify.com/user/prisoner1102/playlist/7nbP0B4CRs8zy7JdLf1TMZ) for this fic.


	7. Tom Ford

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The panic attack; Bond makes an offer.

Eve had asked him, once, towards the beginning of their friendship, what his panic attacks were like, and he'd just looked at her, unsure of how to, exactly, describe the stream-of-consciousness that bled into his thoughts, the sensation of uncontrollable shaking, the actual, physical nausea that came with every new thought or worry. In the end, he'd described it as being a little like being held off the edge of a cliff – helplessness, accentuated by the gravity of the problem at hand.

It wasn't the perfect descriptor, not by a very long shot, but it was accurate enough. Q was indeed feeling a little helpless, and that was only accentuated by the fact that he was in Bond's house, being paid with Bond's money, and currently hiding from Bond in one of the man's rooms. And Bond knew his secret, and didn't have a problem saying it out loud, of _inviting_ Q to bring men back to Skyfall like that was something that was just _done_.

Q sucked in a deep breath, shaky and uneven. He was about to start to convincing himself of all the reasons why that was a bad idea, because for one singular moment, he'd thought about actually taking Bond's permission, or whatever it was, seriously, but before he could get too invested in that train of thought, the door to his bedroom swung open, and Bond stepped inside.

“Christ, Q.”

Bond knelt down in front of him before Q could say anything, reaching up to gently cup his face. “Christ,” he murmured again, and when Bond brushed his thumbs over his cheeks, Q realized that they were wet with tears. God, he was crying. Embarrassed, he shifted forward, intending to turn his face away, to apologize for making a scene, but then Bond was pulling him in close, tucking him against his chest, and that was it. That was Q's breaking point.

Fingers curled into Bond's dinner jacket, Q buried his face in his shoulder and sobbed. It was if a dam had broken, been completely and utterly obliterated by Bond pulling him in close, and if that wasn't pathetic, Q didn't know what was. But Bond, at least, didn't seem to mind that he was pathetic, just let Q sob into his shoulder and gently stroked his hair while murmuring reassuring nothings in his ear. And the worst part, perhaps, was that it all _was_ very comforting, very reassuring. Q could feel himself calming, leaning into the hand in his hair as mortification began to creep in.

“I didn't meant to startle you,” Bond said quietly, and Q couldn't help but make an almost derisive sound – 'startled' was a kind way of putting his current state.

“I overreacted,” Q said in reply, and braced himself to pull out of the warm circle of Bond's arms, but the man made no move to let him go. If anything, Bond shifted a little closer, tipping his head to the side so it rested on top of Q's. And Q very nearly began to cry again, because he couldn't remember the last time he'd been held like that.

Like Q hadn't said anything at all, Bond continued speaking, his fingers resuming their travels through Q's curls. “I forget, sometimes, that people keep their secrets for safety, rather than just preference.” He took a breath. “You have my apologies, Q. I assure you that my intent was not to out you. To anyone. I only wanted to make you as comfortable as possible here.”

Q made a noise against Bond's chest, and the man just held him a little bit closer, and Q felt so _safe_ that he wanted to never leave. “I'm comfortable,” he mumbled, and then felt Bond chuckle.

“I'm glad,” the older man said quietly, “though I meant more in general. You are safe here, Q, and free from judgment.” He paused, and then reached down, tilting Q's chin up. “You have, before, with a man, no?”

Q felt himself flush a bright red, but Bond's hand under his chin kept him from hiding again. “Yes,” he said, and then because that sounded far too defensive for his liking, “once.”

He wasn't a blushing virgin, current state of blushing aside. And while his experience with men was limited, he did know that his attraction was limited to men – Eve was a beautiful woman, and he could see that, but he had never had the urge to drop to his knees for her, and he had very much had that urge for Bond, the man who, thankfully, was kind enough to not comment on the fact that Q's blush was just growing darker and darker. 

Bond's smile did grow a little softer, though, and his thumb shifted to brush over Q's cheek. Abruptly, Q realized that he was practically in the other man's lap, and that Bond was almost tenderly cupping his jaw, and being so _kind_ in ways that Q didn't expect from friends, much less strangers, and for a moment he almost felt like he was going to start crying again, but that urge was replaced almost immediately by the desire to feel Bond's mouth against his own. And perhaps his panic attack had temporarily made his thought-to-action filter become utterly nonexistent, because a moment later, he leaned up and fulfilled that desire.

Bond's lips were dry and soft, and Q's hands slid up to sit on either side of the man's neck, and he pressed forward into the kiss, close-mouthed. It wasn't a good kiss. Even Q, with his limited experience with kissing, knew that, but making it good was far behind the priority of having it in the first place. Because Q hadn't kissed a man in longer than he could remember, and Bond was there, being far more kind and comforting than he had any reason to be. It was almost as if not kissing him wasn't an option.

For a moment the other man didn't respond at all, and Q felt his stomach sink. Bond had initiated this sort of thing before, but maybe Q had missed his window, his opportunity, and maybe Bond didn't want this, him, anymore, and was going to push him away and sneer and leave, but he didn't. Bond didn't do any of those things. 

Before Q could pull away, he felt warm hands slide up to cup his jaw, and then Bond's lips were moving against his, and Q just melted a little. 

Bond's thumbs smoothed over Q's cheeks as his tongue eased forward, parting Q's lips and slipping past his teeth. This kiss, with Bond very much in control, was good. It was really fucking good, and Q made a little noise into Bond's mouth, pressing forward, trying to get more of that contact, but Bond gentled him and kept the kiss fairly chaste. There was just the careful curl of Bond's tongue against his teeth, and the soft press of his lips. It was perfect. 

All too soon, Bond pulled back, making Q let out a truly pathetic sound. He didn't want to lose that feeling of being held safely and kissed and touched. But Bond was still holding his face, almost tenderly, and his eyes, when Q looked up, were soft.

When Bond's finger dipped down to brush over his bottom lip, Q hummed, smiling gently. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, Bond's finger slipped past his lips and...

Oh.

Tentatively, Q licked the tip of Bond's finger, and watched as the other man's pupils dilated to the point that there was only a sliver of icy blue visible. The look made Q squirm, heat pooling low in his stomach, because that look was predatory and promising and he wanted it all. It was a bit of a dizzying shift, going from completely panicked to partially aroused, but Q had the sneaking suspicion that that was not exactly going to be an uncommon state.

“As much as I would adore this,” Bond said, “and I do, the things I want with you, Q, the things I want to do to you...” He shook his head, and then slipped his finger out of Q's mouth. Q whined, and then blushed, and Bond, the bastard, just smiled. “But tonight, you're going to sleep in your own room, and I'm going to sleep in mine, and tomorrow, if this is something you still want, we'll revisit it.”

Q didn't want to revisit it, because that meant leaving Bond's lap and sleeping alone for another night when there was someone he wanted who wanted him back. And that just wasn't fair. “Bond, I swear, I'm...” he began, and Bond cut him off with a kiss.

“I know,” he murmured. “I know, Q. But the offer, all of it, will still be valid in the morning. And the next morning, and the next. I want you.” He paused, and smiled. “After you get a good night's rest.”

Q sighed, and then ducked his head down to rest it on Bond's chest, allowing himself to enjoy the closeness for another few moments. Bond was right, and Q knew he was – he was a bit of an emotional wreck at the moment, and as much as he wanted this, he also knew that if he didn't take a night to think it over, he'd regret it.

“If you insist,” he muttered, and felt more than saw Bond smile against his hair. The older man pressed another kiss to his curls, and then drew back, gently tipping Q's chin up so that he could meet his eyes.

“I do.” The kissed again, and when Bond stood with Q in his arms to deposit him on the bed, Q very nearly yelped, fingers curling in the wrinkled, tear-stained material of Bond's dinner jacket.

“Brute,” he said under his breath, and Bond's quiet little laugh made his stomach do a flip. Q wasn't an idiot – he knew he was being flirted with, courted, even – and he was aware that Bond was very, very experienced, but he was thankful the other man had suggested he take a night. Even if it was just sex, it was considerate sex, and Q's opinion of Bond went up that much more.

The man laid Q down on the bed, smiling when the hacker leaned up to kiss him. “Goodnight, Q,” he murmured, which Q returned, before Bond pulled the blankets up over him, dropping a kiss to his forehead before leaving.

Q slept the night through.

* * *

The morning brought a clearer mind, and with it, copious amounts of embarrassment. He'd cried in Bond's lap, for Christ's sake. He'd kissed him, and Bond had put him to bed with the patience of a saint.

Q was never going to get a chance to sleep with James Bond, because he was going to die of mortification first.

He very nearly didn't get out of bed, but the masochistic side of him wanted to make sure that Bond had really only been placating him, that he hadn't actually meant the offer. Q was fairly certain that was the case, because Bond was Bond and that was how life worked, but he just wanted to be sure. 

So, dragging his arse out of bed, he made himself himself shower thoroughly (just in case, definitely not getting his hopes up, no siree) and dress. He checked his hair for perhaps the seventh time, and then sighed – he still, for all his time and effort, looked like a virgin, which he wasn't, but God, looking like an adult for once in his life would have been nice. 

In the end, he convinced himself that it didn't really matter, because Bond was going to recant. He still checked his hair one last time before he left his room, though, and by the time he made it to Bond's room, he was biting his bottom lip, worrying it between his teeth.

Raising his hand, Q knocked on Bond's door, fingers digging into his palm a little. A million scenarios flashed through his mind of what Bond would say, what he would do, and he was so caught up in thinking that he didn't notice the door open, until Bond cleared his throat quietly. “Q?”

“I want it,” Q blurted, and then flushed. “I mean, what you said. Last night, about...” He rubbed the back of his neck. “What you offered. I want you to show me what it's supposed to be like.”

Bond paused. And then...

“Come in, Q.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look [at](http://therakeonline.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/01/how-to-wear-Linen-suits-8.jpg) [these](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/2c/03/a8/2c03a89987cfb2810053c99577976717.jpg) [suits](https://vktailormade.files.wordpress.com/2013/09/tumblr_lwnxwy0qpt1qkiwxpo1_12801.jpg).
> 
> Also, go check out the [Spotify playlist](http://open.spotify.com/user/prisoner1102/playlist/7nbP0B4CRs8zy7JdLf1TMZ) for this fic!


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